Locks
by Karalora
Summary: Slavery is one of the great evils of the world, devastating the bodies and spirits alike of its victims. Norway is about to learn this the hard way. Based on Humon's picture entitled "White Slave." Content advisory for various forms of brutality and overall bleakness. Do not read in situations where clear vision is important.
1. Part I: Fall

_Introduction: _Scandinavia and the World_ is funny, funny stuff…most of the time. Occasionally, Humon takes a more serious tack with it. The best example is probably the illustration entitled "White Slave." Look it up if you're not familiar with it—it's the grayscale one featuring Denmark, in uniform, arguing with a smug slaver who has Norway captive with his hands tied. The tension in the scene is palpable, and it still boggles my mind (in a good way) how she managed to condense an entire story into that one image. After many months of internal debate, I have finally decided to share with you how I imagine that story must have gone. Fair warning: This is a dramatic piece, not one of my usual comedies. It may be hard to read, especially if you're a Norway fan (like me). It was certainly no picnic to write._

_As a final note, I cast Libya as the slaver because the comic is based on stereotypes and I think of all the North African countries, it has the most tyrannical reputation. It isn't meant to be a statement about the nation's reality, especially now that Ghaddafi is gone. In any event, this takes place in a bygone century._

* * *

"How does the saying go? Ah, yes. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life."

_The Mediterranean was every bit as splendid as he had heard—warm even at night, the coastlines dotted with opulent cities, and even peasant life in the villages was soft enough that they took an hour or two off each afternoon to nap…_

"You are to work when you are told, as long as you are told, as hard as you are told. If you are insolent or disobedient, you will be whipped. If the quality of your work is unsatisfactory, you will be whipped."

_The luxury was hard on travelers, of course. He couldn't always afford to get lodgings on land, and spent many a night on board the ship, dozing off to the lap of harbor waves against the hull and the smell of salt and fish and tar…_

A hand grips his chin and tips his head sharply upward so that his captor can look him in the eye. "And sometimes, slave, you will be whipped just to remind you of your place."

_It was on one of those nights that the attack came. All he remembered afterward was coming violently, bewilderingly awake and then being sent right back into blackness by a fierce blow to the head. When he woke again, hours later, he was shackled inside a wagon with barred windows. Kidnapped right from his own ship…_

"Don't get any fancy ideas about escape, either," the bearded nation continues. "You will be locked up at night, and the desert stretches for a hundred leagues in every direction. The only way you're getting away from me is if someone offers the right price for you. And believe me, I am not relinquishing a great plow horse like you for less than a small fortune. My advice is to be resigned to your fate…you'll suffer less."

Norway has been through humiliations before, but he never imagined he would be reduced to this. _Slavery_…the word is like a blade of burning ice in his mind. Yet he does not succumb to the visceral horror of it. Not yet. Libya underestimates him.

More accurately, Libya underestimates _Denmark_, Norway's sovereign, who knows where he has gone and will miss him when he does not return, and who will move heaven and earth for the sake of a friend…

* * *

Libya wishes to build a canal to facilitate irrigation and trade. The concept is basically foreign to Norway, who has precipitation aplenty and other means of moving goods from place to place. He imagines a simple ditch on a larger scale, and the true complexity of the enterprise surprises and discomfits him. The canal bed must be lined with gravel and clay to prevent the water from simply vanishing into the sandy soil, and walls and dikes must be built, and locks to control water flow and allow Libya to extract tolls from the barge traffic…

It would be a noble endeavor, Norway thinks idly, if it weren't being built by chattel laborers.

His thoughts, of course, are the only part of him that is allowed any idleness. He has stringent quotas of work to perform every day—excavating a certain area of ground, for example, or building a certain length and height of wall—and if he is not finished by sunset, then he is denied his evening meal until he gets it done. Norway is no stranger to hard manual labor, but there is a world of difference between toiling for his own benefit and being forced to do it for another, with the threat of a beating hanging over his head should he fail. Still, for the first few days, it is manageable. Nothing he didn't expect. Maybe, he thinks over his small bowl of unseasoned rice and lentils, this will be endurable until Denmark arrives to put a stop to it.

He gets his first flogging on the sixth day. He is allowed a few short breaks during the workday, so that Libya can perform his scheduled prayers. One of them feels _too_ short, and he mutters a curse as he heaves up. Libya decides to interpret it as "insolence," ties Norway's hands to a post, and deals five quick lashes to his bare back. Two of them break the skin, and all of them sting hard enough to make Norway cry out, though he manages to stifle it down to a whimpering grunt. All things considered, he counts himself lucky. He has discovered an important boundary. The pain fades within the hour as the cuts seal up and his sweat stops running into them.

Weeks turn into months, and Norway's life settles into its grueling rhythm. Wake at dawn to the clamor of a bell, with kicks to the ribs if he is slow to rouse himself. A sparse, flavorless breakfast. Work. A short rest. More work. Another rest. Work again, until sunset or later. Another scanty meal. One more stint of work if there is enough moonlight. Then sleep in the barred wagon, with one thin blanket between him and the startling nocturnal chill. Repeat the next day, and the next, and the next…

The locks and bars are technically unnecessary. The desert is proof enough against plans of escape. It is almost beyond Norway's mental grasp that there could be so much land without water. The heat is bad enough here, where there are snatches of shade alongside the half-finished retaining walls, and even canopies erected over parts of the worksite. Out there, among the dunes…Norway imagines himself shriveling up under the sun like a strip of bacon in the pan… The appearance of the place is like someone took his beloved ocean and baked it in an oven, hardening the waves in place and bleaching the azure to a pale gold. The blending of the familiar with the alien is much more unsettling than total strangeness would be.

He lives in cruel irony. Shovels and mallets and ropes are put into his hands, and he could use any of them to subdue his captor in an instant, but he dares not, because all the water he could carry would not see him safely out of the trackless burning waste.

There are other slaves, but Norway doesn't know them, doesn't share enough language with them to make their acquaintance. He is the only European among them. They are all in this together, but he feels heartbreakingly alone. Solitude has never much bothered him; in some ways he prefers it. Large groups make him uncomfortable. To be in a group, yet wholly alienated from it, is the worst of both worlds.

The tasks vary from day to day, even within a day. There is earth to dig, and mortar to mix, and bricks to lay, and plaster to spread, and nails to drive, and scaffolding to raise, and endless loads to carry or cart or haul or shove. Norway is strong, Libya's "plow horse," and between his natural ability and his diligence, he mostly manages to avoid the lash. Occasionally, when the heat makes him sluggish, a smarting blow across his shoulders spurs him on. More rarely, something he says or does offends the master and he receives a harsher punishment.

And every once in a while, as promised, he is beaten—not hard, but not so lightly that he can laugh it off—just so he never forgets what he is. A slave. Those beatings don't need to be fierce, just unpredictable. The point is that Libya can cause him pain, at any time, for any reason or no reason, and Norway has no right to resist or complain. He no longer owns himself. He is someone else's possession.

It is cruel, but oddly enough not sadistic. Libya seems to take no pleasure in "disciplining" Norway. If anything, he treats it as a chore—essential maintenance of a useful tool, like sharpening a hoe or oiling a mechanism. In a sense, that makes it _worse_—at least sadism would involve a twisted regard for Norway's feelings. This way, he really might as well be a _thing_.

He only ever receives _just enough_. Just enough food to maintain his valuable strength, just enough water to ward off dehydration and heatstroke, just enough rest to prevent collapse, just enough sleep to live on. Once a week, he is given an extra bowlful of water and a rag to bathe himself. He quickly learns to drink half of it first and make do with the rest for cleanliness, making a small luxury out of a necessity. He decides that of all his privations, the lack of adequate sanitation is the worst. That and the hunger. And the thirst. And the weariness. And the humiliation. It all weaves together into a tapestry of just-tolerable suffering, more numbing than anger-inducing.

Only in his dreams—when he is not too exhausted to dream—is there solace, and in some ways it is a torment, because he always wakes too soon. He dreams of the sea and wakes to the arid sand. He dreams of his verdant mountains and wakes to the barren lowlands. He dreams of freedom and wakes to his cage.

He dreams of Denmark, who must surely be investigating Norway's disappearance by now. That is the only dream that truly comforts him. It is the only one that _might_, some glorious dawn, turn out to be true.

It doesn't happen at dawn. It happens at noon.

* * *

It is a day like any other until plumes of dust appear in the distance. The arrival of a conveyance is nothing new; there are wagons and camel caravans every few days bringing needed materials to the site. But this vehicle is moving at speed, drawn by cantering horses rather than plodding oxen. The thunder of carriage wheels becomes audible, and Norway's heart leaps, because he _knows_ that particular pattern of squeaks and rattles. When the carriage comes near enough for its livery to be visible, Norway's hope becomes so great that he thinks he might faint.

Libya knows what it means too. He swears under his breath, pulls Norway away from his task, and orders him to wait in the wagon. From that distance, the sounds of the meeting are muffled, but there is no mistaking the voice, raised in righteous anger. Norway nearly weeps with relief, holding back out of a nagging sense of caution. Soon enough, he realizes that indeed, his release is not going to be as simple as Denmark making the demand and Libya conceding. The slaver wants coin. But there is one brief moment of pure joy.

"Where is he? I demand to see him!"

Norway can practically _hear_ Libya's calculating thoughts. Refusal is politically dangerous, but so is too-ready compliance. It seems like hours before he mutters, "This way," and two sets of footsteps approach.

The door is opened for Denmark to pass through, and held open to prevent any secrecy. Norway forces himself not to cry out at the sight of his friend, a show of emotion which might earn him a flogging. A strange instant passes before the other Scandinavian's eyes light with recognition and he drops into a crouch and sets a comforting hand on Norway's shoulder. The gesture is almost painfully formal, but Norway understands—visible affection between the two of them would give Libya even more bargaining power. This all has to be played delicately.

"You've lost weight…I almost didn't know you," Denmark says, switching from French to Danish for a measure of privacy. "He hasn't been feeding you enough."

"Forced labor is good exercise," Norway agrees in the same tongue, a little dark humor to let Denmark know his Nordic spirit hasn't truly been broken.

"The bastard. I swear I'll get you out of here." He swallows before continuing, his sentences clipped short with remorse. "But …not today. I can't. I don't have the money, and I can't just take you. Not nowadays. His claim on you is legitimate. The rules around here…you were in his territory, and he caught you fair and square. So I'll have to pay him. He's demanding a lot, but I'll raise it somehow."

"Enough," Libya barks from the entrance. "You've seen him. You have the conditions for his release. Leave us to our work_._"

"Go on," says Norway. "I'll be all right."

Denmark nods once and takes his leave.

After another few moments, the carriage departs, rattling off into the distance. Norway buries his face in his hands, joy and despair dancing together in his heart.

"Get out of there and back to work," says Libya curtly. Norway dutifully exits the wagon…and Libya backhands him in the mouth, taking him by surprise and sending him sprawling in the dust.

"Cur! What did he say to you?"

His ears ringing, Norway has trouble comprehending the question at first. "I-I don't know what you mean!" he moans around a split lip.

"Yes you do! What was the meaning of that ridiculous northern gibberish?"

"Nothing! He just told me he would have to raise money to buy me off you! That's all! I swear!"

Libya studies Norway with cold eyes for a few seconds. "Very well. I'll be watching you."

It is perhaps inevitable that trouble follows. The certain knowledge that this state of things is temporary drives Norway to distraction, and Libya, already cross after the confrontation with Denmark, is looking for an excuse to vent his fury…

The blows are savage, and many—Norway loses count under the onslaught of white-hot pain, and ultimately blacks out. He comes to when Libya unties him from the whipping post so that he drops clumsily to the ground, his back wet with blood, his face with tears. "Know this," says the slaver. "Every time this happens, your price goes up. Remember that whenever you find yourself growing complacent." He orders Norway to the wagon once more, but he can barely walk, and must be half-supported and half-dragged by another slave.

He remains there for the rest of the day, in too much pain to work. By nightfall, it has finally subsided enough to allow him sleep, but it is a poor sleep, hindered by an instinctive fear of rolling over and grinding grit and splinters into his wounds. Come morning, his unhappy respite is over and his labor resumes. Libya pretends nothing has happened. Norway decides to do the same, though his back throbs on and off for days afterward.

The tempo of the dance slows, and despair takes the lead. Somehow, he had thought it would all end as soon as Denmark arrived. The reality is all the more crushing for that. Norway wonders if he shouldn't have taken Libya's initial advice and simply accepted this as his new life.

Those who hope for nothing can never be disappointed…

* * *

He adapts. People can get used to almost anything.

In the main, he copes by withdrawing. He concentrates entirely on his tasks and speaks only when directly prompted, his awareness contracting to a single point consisting of whatever he is doing at the moment, and the moment he is doing it in. The past is past, and he dares not imagine the future. There is only _now_…_now_ he is spading earth into a wheelbarrow, _now_ he is accepting a ladleful of water, _now_ he is sorting broken bricks from intact ones… The hours and days blur together until he barely remembers what it is like to observe the passage of time.

Then one evening during supper, he chances to glance up at the stars, and he realizes that he has been in captivity for nearly a year. His stomach clenches until he is unable to finish his food. He cries himself to sleep that night, silently weeping in his corner of the barred wagon. He wakes the next morning and, just for a moment, is disappointed to find that he is still breathing. Thankfully, the feeling wanes as he immerses himself in the day's work, and then it is back to the totality of focus that is the only way he can survive with his sanity intact. If this gradual deadening of feeling can be called sanity.

The dam being constructed at Libya's command is nothing compared to the one being erected in Norway's heart. Each day a new lock, stronger than the finest steel, keeping the water from flowing to its natural level.

And time continues to pass…

* * *

It must be several months before the next time Norway is shaken out of his deepening rut. This time, it is due to the weather. With the drastic suddenness that characterizes change in the desert, a clear day turns gusty, and before long the terrifying brown cloud comes rolling over the horizon.

With only minutes to spare before the sandstorm arrives, Libya distributes to the slaves the heavy clothing that will keep the flying shrapnel from skinning them alive. They know what is expected of them: They must remain at their posts for as long as the wind howls, digging out the worksite even as the storm attempts to bury it. For more than twenty-four hours they are in constant motion with spades and brushes. It is the most exhausting labor they have yet been called upon to perform, and they do it, less for fear of the lash than for _survival_. If they stop, the driving sands will engulf them too.

At long last, the storm passes. A few of the slaves make it back to the barred wagons to sleep, but most simply drop where they stand. Libya, to his credit, lets them take their fill of rest before reestablishing the usual routine. Only then does Norway discover that the ordeal has not left him unscathed.

Enough fine, lung-clogging dust made it past his hood and veil to leave him with a minor yet persistent cough. Only a small annoyance at first, over the next few weeks the periodic hacking fits gradually weaken him in almost imperceptible ways. He finds himself tiring more easily. The next time Libya stripes his back in response to some perceived lack of effort, the cuts are slow to heal, and crack back open several times in the succeeding days. No matter how careful he is, the rag for his weekly wash comes back spotted with pink.

One morning, he wakes with a heaviness in his limbs and a sensation of being all at once too hot and too cold. He has taken fever from his lingering injury. If he were at home, he would simply make up a bed by the fire and drink a meadowsweet infusion and sweat it out in a day or two. But he is not at home. He is a slave in a distant land, and he must work through his illness, keeping his performance at the expected level even as the ache spreads through his veins and his bones turn to lead.

For a time, the labor itself helps hold the worst at bay, distracting him from the discomfort and making him sweat almost as efficiently as a good fire. His symptoms typically retreat by midmorning, only to return at night as the day winds down. He takes to sleeping sitting up, leaning against one of the iron reinforcing bands in the wagon so that the cool metal will soothe his throbbing back and leach the furnace-heat from his body…even though this inevitably leaves him shuddering with chills before morning.

As the weeks drag by, however, Norway's condition gradually worsens. His productivity suffers, and he cringes daily in anticipation of a punitive beating. When the time comes, however, Libya merely looks him over with something crueler than pity and kinder than contempt, confirms his illness—and cuts his food rations in half.

"A little incentive for you to recover quickly," he says, as if wellness is not its own reward. In any case, Norway's appetite has been on the wane since the fever began getting worse and he barely feels the additional deprivation…at least, not as _hunger_. He certainly feels his strength deteriorate all the faster as the weight drops off him like melting snow.

This is the sickest he has been since the 14th Century, and he barely survived then…

The other slaves notice, of course. From time to time, one will express concern in the rough pidgin they have adopted for everyday communication (another case of _just enough_), but without any means to treat him, there is nothing to be done. It becomes difficult for him to rouse himself to action when the wake-up bell sounds. Some mornings he cannot get up at all, and spends the entire day in the wagon, dazed with the heat and scarcely aware of himself or the passage of the hours. Most days it isn't quite that bad, but in time he finds himself collapsing under loads scarcely half as heavy as what he could tote with ease beforehand. At that point, Libya gives up on him, stops feeding him altogether and no longer tries to wake him with the others. For their part, they begin to regard him with quiet horror—some of them have been there far longer than he, and he is not the first slave they have seen simply fade away with sickness.

As for Norway himself, the only thing preventing him from giving up as well is that he lacks the strength to make a decision one way or the other…

* * *

_Part II coming soon. Reviews are greatly appreciated._


	2. Part II: Rise

_So hot…so cold…_

A tangle of images, sounds…memories? Is he dreaming? Fever dreams? Is anything real?

Does it matter anymore?

_Leave me alone…no… Don't leave me alone here…I want to go home…so tired…so cold…so hot…_

A voice cuts through the confusion, frantic, angry? Distant? Now closer, less angry but still frantic…

"_God in Heaven, you're burning hot. Just hang on, Norway. It's over, I'm taking you home, but you have to hang on, do you hear me? I'll take care of you, I'll take care of everything…just hold on a little longer…"_

* * *

Something trickles into Norway's eye, and the slight irritation prods him to wakefulness. He blinks it away. There is a rocking motion. There is dim light from a lamp. There is the creak of wood and the smell of salt and fish and tar.

He reaches to his forehead and finds a cool wet cloth. The fever is still with him, but it has subsided somewhat. He shifts his weight, and a little shot of stinging pain explodes in his back. He recognizes the sensation: his infected wounds have been packed with salt and bandaged. His head is resting on something soft. He is being cared for.

He is on a ship and being cared for. He's going home.

A bit of memory surfaces. _Denmark…_

His thoughts are still slow to pull together. Perhaps he dozes off again, but it cannot be longer than ten minutes or so before a hatch opens and someone climbs down the ladder. They are halfway to his bunk before Norway remembers to speak.

"Denmark…?"

The second half of the distance is covered in a sprint. "Norway? Thank God. Are you awake for real this time?"

"This time?"

"You've sort of woken a few times since I bought you back, but you were so delirious I don't think it counts. I was worried almost out of my mind. Are you feeling any better? You must be famished…I got some soup in you before we cast off, but it can't be anywhere near enough. That bastard Libya…how dare he take you? Those African countries can do what they want to each other, but you're _mine_. _We_ never trekked down to Africa and dragged them back home to work for us."

The rapid patter gives Norway something to orient on. "True enough," he says dryly—the West Indies aren't _home_, after all. "That was reserved for Ireland."

"Yes, and we were pretty good to him, all things considered," says Denmark. Norway isn't so sure—it's not like they ever _asked_ the ginger Celt how he felt about captivity—but the other is still talking. "Did you know Libya tried to raise your price on me at the last minute? He said it was to compensate him for the trouble of disciplining you. The son of a bitch nearly killed you and expected me to pay extra for it! Obviously, I wasn't having any of that."

Norway smiles a little. How strange to be with Denmark again, and him chatting so easily, just like before. How strange that Norway is not more _affected_ by it. "What did you do?"

"I held my pistol on him while I dug out my copy of the agreement we signed. It wasn't loaded, but he didn't know that." He pulls off one of his uniform gloves, takes the cloth away from Norway's forehead, and feels the dampened flesh. "You're much less hot now, that's good. Do you think you can sit up?"

"I'll try." Norway's head spins alarmingly with the movement and his back burns, but he manages to push with his elbows and raise his upper body a bit. It's not really sitting up, but it's enough for Denmark to _lunge_ and wrap Norway in a fervent embrace.

"Four days," he says, suddenly emotional. "Two to get to the harbor and then another two since we've been at sea. That's how long I've been wondering if you were ever going to come out of it, or if I'd gotten there _too late_ to save you. I've barely been able to steer the damn ship, I've been so worried about you. And before then, all that time, knowing you were trapped in that godforsaken place… How could you do that to me, Norway? How?"

"I didn't mean to," Norway murmurs.

They remain like that for a few minutes, until the ship suddenly lists. Denmark relaxes and, after another moment, pushes away. "I'd better check our bearing," he says. "I'll be back soon with some water and clean bandages, and then you can rest some more. You're going to be all right. I promise."

* * *

The voyage home is a long one. Denmark, not willing to take any chances with Norway's fragile health, hugs the coast and makes port practically every other day in order to maintain the ship's supplies of drinking water, fresh food, and medicine. Whenever the demands of commanding the vessel allow, he makes time to fuss over his best friend and favorite territory with all the affection he had to restrain when they met in the barred wagon. He brings Norway whatever he asks for—which isn't much, since he spends most of his time asleep. Despite Denmark's initial prediction, he still has little appetite, but in the interest of healing, he eats whatever he is given without protest. After such a long time of being handed only tasteless food, and too little of it, he almost forgot what pleasure could be had in a simple meal. His first pickled herring is a feast in itself.

Besides adequate food, he enjoys all the water he needs to quench his thirst, as much rest as his battered body demands, pleasant company and conversation—or quiet and solitude, as he prefers. In comparison with what he has been rescued from, it might as well be paradise…except for his infirm condition.

His treatment is the best that can be managed at sea—mainly cold compresses and whatever tonics are available in the ports they stop at. Twice a day, Denmark brings up a bucket of seawater to wash Norway's back. It burns intensely, but it's cleansing—purification by fire. The wounds weep continually at first, then gradually dry out and turn to lines of itchy, puckered scabs. The fever remains, rising and falling like the ship itself, but always present. Nearly a month passes in this fashion and Norway's recovery seems to have reached a plateau.

"You've got to keep fighting," Denmark tells him. "We're almost around the tip of Iberia now. I couldn't face your sister if I brought you home in anything less than top form."

"I'm sorry," Norway all but whispers. It's been a bad day for him—his temperature is spiking and plaguing him with dreams like the paintings of a madman.

"Something's wrong with you," Denmark continues, "and I mean besides the fever. It's like you've changed into a different person. I thought you'd be happy to be headed home and getting well—"

"I am," Norway says.

"—but you seem so dead inside, and you're _not_ getting well as fast as you should be. All I can say is that I hope you're not angry with me for taking so long, because I pulled the money together as fast as I could. I called in so many favors…"

"I'm not angry, honest. Just…let me sleep for now. I'm so tired…"

"By all means, get all the sleep you need. But dammit, Norway, you'd better snap out of this soon. I went through all that to get _you_ back, not some pitiful invalid." On that sour note, he leaves Norway to his rest.

Truth be told, the ill nation knows Denmark is right—he _should_ be overjoyed to have been rescued, and the joy should be spurring his healing. But his responses are stunted. The most powerful one he can dredge up at the moment is guilt over Denmark's distress—he knows the sharp words and accusations are a cover for a worry so profound that it is almost terror. Norway _wants_ to return to his old self, if for nothing else than to ease Denmark's mind…

At least, he wants to want to… Therein lies the rub. He trapped his emotions behind so many locks that he lost count, and the dam is as solid as a fortress.

* * *

He dreams of water. This is not unusual—he dreamed of water often during his time of servitude, and the habit has not yet left him. But this time the water is moving—a rapid stream somewhere deep underground. He wakes suddenly when the ship lurches over the crest of an oddly shaped wave, and in the confusion that accompanies the transition to consciousness, he realizes something strange.

He has been at sea for over a month, and not once has he _seen_ it. There are no portholes in the cabin. All his other senses have enjoyed the ocean's presence, but he has not actually clapped eyes on the great blueness that he loves so much. The realization comes as something of a shock, which quickly translates into a _need_ to rectify the imbalance, so intense that it is almost a physical pain.

It is the first thing he can remember truly _wanting_ for himself, as a first-order desire, in many months. And he can do nothing to obtain it except wait for Denmark's next appearance…and hope he can hang on to this sensation in the meantime.

He is remembering what it feels like to feel.

When the hatch opens again, Norway calls out so abruptly that it hurts his throat and makes him cough. "Idiot," Denmark says gently, offering him a waterskin. "What's so urgent?"

"Take me above deck," says Norway. "I need to see it. The sea. Denmark, I _need_ to."

"How? I can't carry you up the ladder and you're not strong enough to climb it yourself."

"Let me try."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Don't you understand? It's the one thing I missed more than anything while Libya had me…except for you, and I've seen plenty of you. Do you know what it's like in the desert? It's like a beach, except that it goes on forever and there is _no ocean_. I spent so much time walking on sand and never arriving at the water my feet were expecting. I think if I could just _see_ it, I would be all right. Let me try."

"All right!" says Denmark. "Jesus Christ, Norway, it hurts me to hear you talk like that. Come on. Go slow. When was the last time you walked without help?"

"Yesterday. I had to use the privy and couldn't wait for you."

"Oh."

Getting to the base of the ladder is the easy part. Norway reaches up to grip a rung, and he can already tell it will be a struggle. His long period of illness and semi-starvation has cut his strength by more than half.

"Shall I give you a boost to start you off?" says Denmark.

"No…you go up first. If I fall, you can't really catch me, but if I don't, you can help me up the last bit."

"If you think you might fall, we shouldn't do it."

"I'm doing it whether you're up there ready to help me or not. Denmark, I _need_ this."

"Yes. You said that. I see I can't change your mind. Just be careful, all right?" Denmark heads up the ladder and kneels beside the hatch, half leaning over it, ready to extend a helping hand as soon as it is required.

A climb that should take only a handful of seconds takes instead several minutes. With great effort, Norway can haul himself up, but he doesn't trust his grip to hold through the pitching and rolling of the ship. Each ascent from rung to rung is a victory of its own, seized through expert timing, with nothing for him to do between them but thread both arms through the ladder and cling. Finally he reaches the top, with a bit of a hoist from Denmark.

"This is ridiculous," Denmark says. "You hardly weigh anything at all. You've got to start eating more."

"I think I wore myself out climbing. Help me stand?" Norway requests. Denmark gets underneath his arm so Norway can lean on him, and the two of them slowly rise. The ship's railings pass below Norway's gaze, and the vast expanse of the swelling ocean spreads out before him.

It brings tears to his eyes immediately. How long did he spend, gazing like this at a landscape that was as much a _mockery_ of the sea, with its searing dunes in place of cool waves, as anything could be? And now here it is, the real thing, right before his eyes.

A few instants later, it hits him—it's _real_. This is really it, he's really going home, it's really Denmark acting as his temporary crutch, the nightmare is really behind him.

Against an ocean's worth of water, no dam can stand.

He thinks he can hear gulls squealing as they follow the ship for galley scraps, and only after a moment does he discover that it's actually him, whimpering, each cry the sound of another lock bursting. Then his legs give out. Denmark eases his collapse to the deck, where he sprawls, clinging to his sovereign, his body wracked with sobs as all the tears he held back for the better part of two years come out in a rush. The sea pours through him, washing away the harsh, abrasive sand the desert left in his heart, and returns to itself through his eyes. Denmark, for a change, remains silent without being asked and holds him close until the sobs turn to laughs.

* * *

It's enough.

Norway's fever breaks that night, drenching him and his bedding in sweat—more saltwater finding a long-awaited release. He wakes the next morning drained, but as ravenous as a bear in early spring—he eats enough for three that day, between bouts of tranquil sleep. Within two days, he has no trouble walking and climbing from the cabin to the deck and back again without help. Within a week, he is assisting Denmark with the operation of the ship. Two weeks after that, it's almost like he was never ill, except that he's still noticeably thin.

The character of the voyage changes completely—the frequent stops no longer necessary, Denmark charts a more direct course back to the North, and with both of them on deck, they make excellent time, even reserving some nights for singing and rum. Most days, they drop a small trawl net over the side and have fresh fish for lunch or dinner. The winds are fair and for a time at least, they can pretend the horror never happened.

Norway is actually the more skillful sailor of the two. When they run into a squall upon entering the North Sea—not big enough to sink them, but enough to keep them on their toes—it is Norway's deft handling of the sails that enables them to keep making headway when Denmark working alone would have dropped anchor and waited it out. Afterward, however, while checking the ship's seams for leaks, Norway is visibly troubled.

"What's wrong? You did fantastically," Denmark tells him.

"It's nothing. I'll be all right."

"Norway…don't try to hide things from me. If something's upsetting you I want to know about it."

"All right." He pauses to rehearse his statement. "Don't take this the wrong way, but when you were shouting orders like that, for a moment it felt like…" He trails off.

"Oh, God," Denmark says in sympathy. "I didn't realize… But you must know I'd _never_ treat you like that. Not as a slave. I'd never give you any orders that weren't for your own good as well."

"I know, and I'm not accusing you, but…Denmark…"

"What is it?"

"I still have nightmares sometimes. What if I'm never the same again? What if I can't ever hear that from you without—"

"Don't talk like that! You will. It will fade in time."

"Yes, but…" He tries a different approach. "Do you know what the worst thing about being sick was? The total dependency. Having to rely on you just to bring me food and help me sleep, as if I were a new colony."

"You're better now. Aren't you? You're not relapsing?"

"No. What I mean is…Libya was a terrible master, and you're a good one. But what if I didn't have a master at all? What if I wanted to…to be my own sovereign? Independent?"

Denmark reels as if slapped. "Norway!"

"Don't take it the wrong way!" Norway says again. "Of course I'd still be your ally! I've just been thinking…"

"Do we have to talk about this now? I finally got you back, you're only recently back to your old self, and you're talking about leaving me!"

"Oh," says Norway. He can tell Denmark's not ready to consider the proposition, and no amount of conversation will change that. "I guess I didn't see it from that side. I'm sorry, Denmark. We don't have to talk about it now. But you asked what was bothering me and that's it."

"We'll see how you feel once you get home."

"All right."

* * *

Norway expects to be overcome with longing when at last he glimpses the jagged tops of his fjords on the horizon. But the sea has always been his home away from home, and in that sense he's been back for weeks. Instead, all he feels is a deep satisfaction, like that of a job well done. How lucky he is, he thinks, to love both home and travel almost equally…although he will not be doing any more traveling any time soon.

Denmark climbs to the crow's nest and dispatches a pigeon with a simple message: _Set two extra places for supper tomorrow. _"Your sister's going to be a wreck, you know," he says upon descending back to the deck. "You should have seen her when you didn't come home on schedule. It really shocked me to see her distraught; you're both usually so calm."

"Well, now you've seen both of us brought to grief," says Norway.

"I know. Believe me, there's a lot I'd do to avoid ever seeing it again," says Denmark.

"Oh, right, I only had to go through it," Norway says, a touch acerbic. "You had to _watch_; that's so much worse."

"Don't be like that, Norway. You know damn well what I mean."

"You're right, I do. I'm glad I have you to rely on."

"That's better."

They stand in silence for a few moments, watching Norway's home coast draw slowly nearer.

"So," says Denmark, "does this mean you don't want to run out on me after all?"

"I guess not," says Norway. "It would be pretty ungrateful, wouldn't it? I think what I meant is that I wish I were powerful enough to do for you the sorts of things you do for me…if you needed it."

Denmark's smile could not be warmer as he sets a hand on Norway's shoulder in a gesture of pure camaraderie.

Norway feels a twinge of guilt for his fib. But, he reasons, they will have the rest of their lives to work out the matter of his independence.

And as the saying goes, today is only the first day of it.

The End

* * *

_A/N: Whew! I said back at the beginning that this might not be easy to read and definitely wasn't easy to write. The thing is, I hadn't actually written it yet—I was just assuming based on the mental outline I was working from. As it turned out, it kicked my emotional ass even more than I anticipated. You know how all those people who give advice to writers tell you not to be afraid to torment the characters you love the most? Screw that—be afraid, because when you do it right, that shit **hurts**. Do it anyway, because it's still good advice and it's a great way to challenge your writing muscles, just be aware that it's going to be an act of great courage and even masochism, not a pleasant exercise._

_I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'd better get some great reviews for this. I put myself through the wringer for you guys._

_Also, mega-super-duper-ultra-turbo THANKS to my fellow fanwriter Mekkababble for her encouragement and beta services! I don't know what I'd do without her at this point!_

_Also **also**, if you want to join the SatW fanfiction fun but don't know where to start, come to the SatW Writers' Workshop in the forums!_


End file.
